


Full Disclosure

by Salr323



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Episode: s08e18 Threads, F/M, RST, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salr323/pseuds/Salr323
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She looks at him with that complex expression that’s punctuated their relationship ever since Pete barged onto the scene.  The one that looks like a question, or a plea – the one he’s never really understood and has never dared pursue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Disclosure

"You should go home, Carter.”

She glances up from the untouched coffee she’s nursing and gives him a wan smile. “I… Yeah, I guess. I don’t know.” Blowing out a shaky breath, she smiles an apology and swipes a hand across her eyes. She looks totally out of it. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be.” Jack pulls out a chair and sits down opposite her; it’s safer that way and it’s long ago become a habit. 

“It’s just, I feel...” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what I feel.”

He frowns, wanting to say more but, as usual, failing to bring anything to mind. It would be easier if he could just hold her but they’re in the commissary and, regulations notwithstanding, Pete Shanahan still stands firmly between them. Figuratively speaking.

“It’s like…” She shakes her head, struggling to find the words.

“A great big blank?”

She looks up. “Yes, yes exactly. Like nothing. Like I've run out of feelings.”

“You’re exhausted,” he says, which is true; grief is exhausting. “You need to go home, get some sleep. Nothing else is gonna happen here tonight.”

She nods, gazing into her coffee.

He watches her for a moment and then says, “You wanna ride?”

“Sir, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” He holds her look. “You wanna ride home?”

“I have my car.”

Frustration makes him angry and he flattens his hands on the table as he pushes himself to his feet, tamping down hard on the unworthy emotion. None of this is her fault. “Okay,” he says, trying not to actually grit his teeth. “You want me to call Pete to—?”

“No.” 

“No?”

She frowns and looks away, shaking her head slightly. “I can’t—” 

And then she looks at him with that complex expression that’s punctuated their relationship ever since Pete barged onto the scene. The one that looks like a question, or a plea – the one he’s never really understood and has never dared pursue. He holds her gaze but doesn't speak; he has no idea what she wants to hear.

After a moment she looks back at her coffee and says, “I think I just need to be alone for a while.”

That, at least, he can understand. But he still doesn't want her driving while she’s reeling from the shock of losing her father. And it is a shock no matter how prepared she claims to be. Deciding to pull rank, he says, “Go get your stuff, Carter. I’m driving you home.”

“Sir—”

“Not a discussion, Colonel. Get what you need; I’ll meet you at the elevators in ten.” 

She considers it briefly – perhaps contemplating arguing – then gives in to the inevitable. “Thank you, sir.”

The ride up in the elevator is long and silent, Carter leaning back against the wall and staring at her boots. She’s so lost in thought that she doesn't even notice when the doors open and he has to nudge her out of the elevator with his elbow.

“Sorry,” she mutters again.

“Stop apologizing, will you?”

She smiles. “Sorry.”

He rolls his eyes in an attempt to cover a bright flare of affection but wonders how well he conceals it; Kerry knew right away, despite his best efforts. He’s afraid it’ll still be obvious even after Carter’s married. 

The thought sinks like a stone into the pit of his stomach and he sighs, or something, because Carter frowns at him in concern. “What?”

“What?”

“You sighed.”

He shakes his head. “Just thinking.” Digging into his pocket, he finds his keys and unlocks his truck as they cross the parking lot. 

“About Dad?”

“Yeah,” he lies. “About Jacob. He was a good man, I’ll miss him.”

Carter nods, but her voice isn't tearful when she says, “He liked you, sir. He liked you a lot.”

“Good.” He finds a smile for her and she returns it for a moment before that incomprehensible look clouds her eyes again and she turns away. 

“He, ah, said…” She swallows and stops as they reach his truck. 

Jack opens the passenger door, holds it for her. “He said what?” 

Carter shakes her head. “Nothing, I— He…” She’s standing between him and the door, close. Close enough that he can feel her warmth through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “I’m all over the place right now,” she says at last, looking out over the parking lot. “I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I feel like that most days.”

She gives a tearful laugh.

“Get in the truck,” he says, and closes the door behind her. Slowly, he walks around to the driver’s side, giving himself time to gather his own unruly emotions. Jacob’s death has shaken a few things loose and he doesn’t have as much control as he would like; his conversation with Kerry has only made it worse. And it’s left him with a single, pressing question: _what the hell am I doing?_

Is he really going to let her walk down the aisle with another man and not even put up a fight? It doesn’t sound like him, and yet not once since this whole Pete thing began has he done anything to stop it.

 _Because you have no right_ , a reasonable part of his mind suggests. _You can’t offer her anything better. You can’t offer her anything at all._

 __Tired of the old, circular argument he opens the door and climbs into the driver’s seat. Carter’s already buckled in, staring unseeing through the windshield. He turns the key, the engine jumps to life, and he backs out of the parking space. “So,” he says, looking over his shoulder as he steers, “where to?”

“Home,” she says, surprised.

Still not looking at her, he says, “Yours?”

“Unless you’re inviting me over, sir?”

“No, I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” A half smile. “My house, please.”

They drive in silence almost all the way, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. Occasionally he glances over at her, but she’s lost deep in thought – it’s been, what, five hours since her father died? He’s just wondering if he should say something, although he has no idea what, when she speaks. 

“What do you think of Pete, sir?”

“Pete?” Ah, crap. He struggles for something appropriate. “I, uh— He seems nice?”

She nods. “Nice. That’s what my Dad said.”

“Well, good. Nice is good.”

She looks over at him; in the corner of his eyes he sees her head move and feels her gaze rest on him. “Is it?”

“You’re still having doubts? It’s natural, you know. It’s a big decision.” And what the hell is he doing? Is he actually trying to talk her _into_ marrying Mr Whitebread? He clears his throat. “That’s not to say that you shouldn’t listen to— Just because…” He lets out a long breath. “Carter, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Nothing.” She shuts down again, looks away. “Sorry, sir, I shouldn’t have—” He hears her take a deep breath. “So, you and Kerry Johnson, huh? She seems nice.”

He wonders if he should tell her that he and Kerry are over, but now doesn’t feel like the right time. Things are complicated enough. Instead he says, “Nice?”

“I mean—”

“I know,” he glances at her as he pulls up outside her house. “I know exactly what you mean, Carter.”

She nods and stares down at her hands where they lay clasped in her lap. “So… Thanks for the ride, sir.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll send someone over with your car later.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Carter.”

She smiles a real smile. “Thanks, sir.”

“You betcha.”

For a moment she just looks at him and then she unbuckles her seatbelt and climbs out of the car. He hesitates a moment before getting out as well and coming to stand with her on the sidewalk. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, I just need some time to…process everything.”

“Sure.” For a moment it’s awkward because he doesn’t know what to say, but then he realises he doesn’t need to say anything and instead just holds out his arms. There’s no one watching, after all. “Come here.”

And she does, leaning into him and holding him as close as he holds her. “Thank you,” she whispers, her breath warm against his neck; he has to close his eyes against the flash of longing it provokes. “For everything.”

He hugs her tight. “Anytime, Carter. You know that.”

She nods against his shoulder and then pulls out of his arms. There are tears on her cheeks and she dashes them away with the back of one hand. “Sorry,” she sniffs. “God, I’m a wreck.”

“You just lost your dad, Carter. You’re allowed to be.”

She nods toward her house. “I should probably…” 

“Go,” he says, jamming his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her again. “Get some rest, eat something. Call me. You know – if you need anything.”

Another nod, too much emotion in her eyes for speech, and she’s walking slowly up the path to her house. Part of him wants to go with her, but most of him knows that she needs to be alone. Whatever is going on between her and Pete, she needs time and space to process the loss of her father before she can make any decisions. 

And the last thing she needs is him there confusing things. 

***

They hold the memorial two days later, before Selmak is removed and returned to the Tok’ra, not only at the Tok’ra’s request but because Homeworld Security doesn't like the idea of burying a real alien in California. Just in case someone gets curious. It seems pedantic, but Sam can’t really blame them and the idea of Selmak’s remains appearing in _The National Enquirer_ makes her blood run cold. Besides, she figures he’d like to rest among his own kind, although she doesn't know a great deal about Tok’ra funerary rites. She thinks she might ask them about it later, when it feels less raw.

Her father’s body will be taken to San Diego after the memorial, to be buried next to her mother. Mark wants them to be together and, although Sam doesn't believe it much matters where his physical remains are laid to rest, she doesn’t argue with Mark. She won’t be able to visit the grave very often, but she’ll remember her father every time she steps through the Stargate and Mark won’t have that – just like he didn’t have the past four years that brought them so close. So she doesn’t begrudge him the headstone.

She feels cold as they gather before the Stargate, its bulking presence dominating the room and the lines of uniforms standing to attention in its shadow. She didn’t sleep well and didn’t eat breakfast; she feels cold and thin as paper, like a breeze could blow right through her.

Pete isn’t there, neither is Mark. This is just for them, for those few who inhabit this other reality and knew her father as both Jacob and Selmak; who know what they both contributed to the cause for which everyone in the room has already given so much. 

General O’Neill stands next to her, grave and spotless in dress blues. He glances at her once, when he comes to stand with her, but he doesn’t speak until he climbs the ramp to stand at the lectern and then it seems that he speaks to her alone, that she is the only person in the room, as he tries to sum up what her father had meant to them all: SGC, Tok’ra, and Free Jaffa. 

His words are honest and touching and Sam has to blink back tears. O’Neill and her father respected and liked each other despite, or maybe because of, the way they locked horns. They were too alike, she supposes, to get along easily. Both stubborn men, both good men. Both close to her heart.

There are more eulogies, from the Tok’ra and Brat’ac and others, and as time crawls on Sam feels herself sway, tense with restrained emotion, her knees locked and blood pressure falling as she stands at a rigid parade rest. She flexes her feet, shifting her weight from one to the other. It helps a little.

O’Neill nudges her arm. _You okay?_

She nods, leans a little closer to him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the warmth of his presence. Pete, she thinks, would have put his arm around her shoulders or reached for her hand. But O’Neill knows better; he understands Lt. Colonel Carter. 

There’s a prayer at the end, a muttered ‘amen’, and then it’s over. 

As people file out, speaking in low voices and generally avoiding her eye, O’Neill turns to face her. “There’s a thing in the briefing room,” he says, watching her carefully. “Coffee, pastries - the Air Force’s idea of a wake. But you should eat something.” 

Sam blows out a breath, glad it’s over. Glad she didn’t cry. “I should speak to Bra’tac first—” 

“He’s invited.” A discrete hand on the small of her back steers her toward the gate room doors; it’s an order, apparently. “You’re doing a passable impersonation of Casper the Friendly Ghost, Colonel,” he says, close to her ear. “You skip breakfast?” 

“I wasn’t hungry. Stupid, really; I knew I’d be standing for hours.” The last thing – the very last thing – she wants to do is faint. 

He doesn’t comment, but his hand is on her elbow as they climb the narrow stairs, cut through the control room and head up into the briefing room above. The chair, when she finds it, is very welcome. 

So is the Danish he sets before her. “Eat.” 

He’s right, it’s probably low blood sugar as much as anything else and she feels better almost as soon as the pastry hits her lips. “Thanks, sir.” 

The corner of his mouth curls in a half smile and he drops into the chair next to her. “So,” he says, unbuttoning his jacket with obvious relief, “that’s over.” 

“Yeah,” she nods, licking sugar from her fingers. 

O’Neill looks away sharply, studying the slowly filling room with a focus it doesn’t really deserve. Perhaps he feels awkward and doesn’t know what to say? 

Not quite sure what to say herself, she suddenly remembers his speech. “Thanks for what you said about Dad, sir. He’d have appreciated it.” 

“I meant every word.” He glances at her again. “Your dad was a pretty cool guy, Carter.” 

“He was,” she says with a smile. “I’m glad I had the chance to discover that.” 

He doesn’t answer, just looks at her for a beat or two longer than comfortable. She doesn’t know how to read that dark, serious look. And then it’s gone and he’s frowning, shaking his head as if recollecting himself. “So, you’re heading to San Diego tomorrow?” 

“Yeah...” 

One eyebrow lifts at the sigh in her voice. “Things okay with you and Mark?” 

“Okay,” she says. “Not great. You know.” 

“It’s difficult when you can’t talk about any of this.” 

“It doesn’t help. But we’ll get through it.” 

“Course you will.” He hesitates, and then says, “Pete flying out with you?” 

She nods. “He’ll stay for the funeral but has to be back here by Thursday.” 

“Good,” he says, and sounds like he means it for once. “That’s not a trip you want to make alone.” 

She isn't sure she wants to make it with Pete either, but she can’t deal with that right now. Not amid everything else. Nonetheless, a queasy unease turns her stomach. The same feeling she gets when she thinks about wedding flowers and place settings, the feeling that sent her over to O'Neill's house on that ill-fated afternoon. She feels it in the field sometimes, too, when everything’s about to go pear-shaped. 

It’s only when O'Neill says, “Carter?” that she realizes her thoughts are drifting. 

“Sorry, sir. I was just—” She clears her throat. “I should probably go thank some people for coming.” 

“You need a minute?” he says, gesturing to his office. “It’s yours if you want it.” 

“No. Thanks, sir, but I’m fine.” She smiles to assuage the doubt in his eyes. “Really. But I appreciate the offer.” 

She stands up and he does too, tugging at his tie. He’s longing to rip the thing off, she can tell. “It’ll be yours one day anyway,” he says. “The office, I mean.” 

That makes her chuckle. And it feels wonderful, a sudden emotional release she hasn't realized she needed. “And where will you be, General, when I’m sitting in your office?” 

“Fishing,” he says, “with any luck.” 

And there it is: that hanging ambiguity that she’s tried so hard to move past. He shrugs an apology, hands sinking into his pockets until he remembers what he’s wearing and pulls them out again. “With Teal’c, obviously.” 

_Or Kerry Johnson_ , she thinks. And suddenly her smile is gone.

***

Pete holds her hand on the flight. She doesn’t mind; she’s not in uniform and she’s allowed to hold hands. But they don’t talk. She feigns exhaustion, which isn’t hard. Sleep has eluded her for the past few nights, although she’s a little ashamed to admit that it isn’t grief for her father keeping her awake at night but an unsettling sense of wrongness.

Perhaps his illness and death have brought things into a clearer focus, or perhaps it’s just that his loving advice has thrown everything off kilter: _You can still have everything you want._

She knows he wasn’t talking about Pete.

As the plane taxies toward the arrival gate she switches her phone back on and smiles to see three messages waiting for her, all from O’Neill. She reads them in order, the first sent a couple minutes before her flight left: _Have a good flight, don’t eat the peanuts._

 __Half an hour later: _T just checked in. Not much progress._

And then, just a couple of minutes ago: _Need a ride home from the airport on Friday?_

“Who’s that?” Pete asks, looking over her shoulder at her phone.

Irritated, she switches it off and stuffs it into her pocket. “A friend,” she says, which isn’t a lie. “Why are you reading my texts?”

He holds up his hands, defensive, and she feels guilty because maybe he has a reason to be jealous. He looks away, glancing out of the window at the heat shimmering on the tarmac. “Looks hot out there.”

“It’s June,” she says, suddenly weary. “It’s San Diego.”

***

The funeral is low key, a world away from the formality of the memorial. And it isn't that she has to force tears it’s just that she’s already said goodbye twice. So she lets Mark take the lead, set the pace, lets Pete put his arm around her shoulders in a gesture of comfort she doesn't want. It feels strange, though, to be out of uniform at the funeral, as if it isn't quite respectful. But she knows Dad would have understood; this is for Mark, who’s had so much less of him than she has.

They go out for lunch after the ceremony – somewhere kid-friendly and she’s glad of the noise and the cheerfulness. There’s been enough morose sitting around in the couple of days before the funeral and they’re all happier now it’s over; there’s a sense of clouds lifting. 

Pete and Mark laugh and talk about football; she can see why they’re friends. They get on better than Mark would get on with Jack O'Neill, not that they’re ever likely to meet. But still, perhaps it’s an upside? Pete fits in better with this half of her life. Well, when she says ‘half’ it’s closer to ten percent. Or maybe five. But he fits in with the normal bits, which is what she thought she wanted.

But sitting there, eating fries in the San Diego heat, she realizes that she doesn't really enjoy normal – at least not for more than a couple of days at a time. She gets bored. A sudden memory makes her smile: Colonel O'Neill, as was, twisting paperclips apart during in one of Daniel’s interminable briefings, his eyes meeting hers across the table. A moment of connection, of mutual understanding. For all her scientific discipline, they've always been more alike than not. Both easily bored.

“Penny for them?” Pete asks, covering her hand with his.

“Not worth half that,” she says, resisting the urge to move her hand into her lap. “So...” she smiles, “are we doing desert?” The kids scream ‘yes!’ and the moment passes. 

Pete leaves that afternoon, heading back to the Springs. She tries not to feel relieved, but it’s difficult to ignore the sensation of lightness fluttering beneath her skin. 

They’d slept far apart in her brother’s guest room. She hadn't wanted him to hold her because, when he did, she remembered Jack holding her as they stood on the sidewalk outside her house, his breath ruffling her hair; she remembered his arm around her in the infirmary, his presence so constant and comforting. He’d promised to be there for her always, despite Kerry Johnson. Despite Pete. 

Lying awake in the dark while Pete snored on the other side of the bed, she’d wondered what it meant that Jack O’Neill could make such a promise. 

“I’m glad I got to meet him,” Pete says, interrupting her thoughts as she drives him to the airport in Mark’s car. “Even if it was just the once.”

“Yeah,” she says and tries not to think of her father’s faint praise. But, typically, that’s all she can remember of the evening.

 _He seems nice_.

“Do you...?” Pete clears his throat. “Do you think he liked me?”

“Sure,” Sam says, because it doesn't matter anymore. “Why wouldn't he?”

Pete shrugs. “I don’t know, I guess maybe he liked General O'Neill better.”

If she hadn't been driving, hadn't had the steering wheel to clutch and the road to hold her focus, she might have choked or frowned or done something else revealing. As it is, she just swallows hard and says, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he talked about General O'Neill half the night.”

“They’re friends, that’s all.” She feels a sudden pang at her use of the wrong tense but lets it go with a sigh. “They _were_ friends,” she corrects. “And they went through some tough stuff together – we all did.”

“I know.” Pete folds his arms across his chest; it’s a frustrated gesture. “It’s a pretty impenetrable world you live in, Sam.”

“It has to be.” She glances at him, glad for the sunglasses that hide her eyes. “You know a lot more about it than Mark.”

“I wasn't talking about all the secret stuff,” he says. “I meant... You’re tight, all of you. It’s hard to get in.”

“You don’t have to ‘get in’.” Irritated, she pulls into the left hand lane and starts overtaking a string of dawdling cars. She’s driving too fast; she wants to get to the airport and be done with this conversation. “You’re not joining the team, Pete, we’re just getting married.” 

“ _Just_ getting married...?”

She winces at his tone of voice. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’re speeding,” he says.

She takes her foot off the gas, but bites her tongue; she can already see the airport. “I’m sorry,” she says, because she doesn’t have the energy to part on a sour note. “I’m still... You know.” She feels guilty blaming it on Dad when he isn’t really the reason. Or, at least, his death isn’t the reason – just his words, his advice. The truth he held out for her to see.

“I know.” Pete’s hand touches her knee. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just— sometimes I feel like an outsider.”

“I know.” She flicks on the turn signal and slips across two lanes of traffic and into the exit lane. “Maybe now’s not the time?”

“No,” he agrees. “No, sorry. You’re right.” After a pause, and more brightly, he adds, “Mark and I are good, though.”

“Yeah, I know.”

And then they’re at the drop point and she pulls over. He leans in to kiss her goodbye and she gives him a quick hug, but he prolongs it and kisses her again. With the door open, the AC is spilling out and hot dry air floods the car. She feels uncomfortable and sticky in his arms and pulls back. “Have a good flight.” 

“See you Saturday?”

“Maybe,” she hedges. “There’s some stuff happening at work, I might need to go in. I’ll call you when I know.”

He gives a resigned sigh. “Sure, okay.”

“It’s important.” 

“It’s always important.”

“Yes,” she says, emphasizing the point. “It is.”

He nods, tight lipped, and climbs out of the car. “I’ll wait for your call then,” he says and offers a peace-making smile. “We still need to talk about the seating plan...”

There it is again, that queasy unease she can’t shake. But she manages a smile, albeit sickly, and hopes he can’t see her eyes behind her dark glasses. “I’ll try to find time over the weekend,” she promises, as if seating plans matter when Anubis is still out there and all that stands between him and Earth is Stargate Command. 

She lifts her hand to wave as Pete shuts the car door and disappears into the terminal building. But she doesn’t drive away, just glances in her mirror to make sure no one is waiting for her space. It’s quiet and she pulls out her phone and scrolls through the texts. 

_You need a ride from the airport on Friday?_

__She hasn’t replied; somehow it didn’t feel right when Pete was right there. But now he’s gone and she sends the text she’s wanted to send since Monday.

_Thanks. AA067 ETA 1430._

__She tells herself he’ll send a car, but she knows he won’t and wonders who she’s trying to kid.

***

Carter’s flight lands ten minutes early, which isn’t a problem because Jack’s been waiting in arrivals for twenty minutes – bouncing. That’s what Daniel called it, this nervous energy that keeps him pacing, fiddling with his sunglasses, checking his phone. Daniel always said he knew they were in trouble when Jack went still. Daniel had been observant like that.

The airport isn’t busy, people are just straggling through with their heavy luggage carts and peering around looking for cabs or rides. He reads the labels on their suitcases, but no one from Carter’s flight is out yet. She’ll be one of the first, he figures. No hand luggage; Carter knows how to pack light.

He paces, checks his phone – no messages – put his sun glasses on, pulls them off again. They’re his favorites, the ones he takes off-world. He lets them dangle from the cord around his neck and glances up at the flight board. Landed. No new information, not that he’s expecting it to tell him anything more, it’s just—

And there she is, with her cropped blonde hair and confident ground-eating stride, winding her way in-between the slower passengers. He doesn’t need to wave, her sharp eyes spot him right away and that smile – God, he loves that smile – breaks out across her face. It floors him, leaves him standing motionless as he watches her walk toward him with her duffle bag slung over one shoulder.

He doesn’t need Daniel to tell him he’s in trouble.

“Sir,” she says, slowing. 

“Carter. Good flight?”

She nods, swings her bag off her shoulder and drops it at her feet. “Fine. I slept, mostly.” 

And there they stand, face to face. He’s missed her, he realises. He’s missed seeing her face every day and if she’d been anyone else he’d have pulled her into a hug. “So...” he says instead. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good, sir.”

He studies her face, assessing the truth. She’s not lying; she _is_ good and he’s glad to see it. But now they’re just standing there, staring at each other, and things are starting to feel charged and awkward. But then Carter leans forward and hugs him. “Thanks, sir. For the ride.”

He hugs her right back, hard - just a little bit longer than platonic but not nearly long enough. “You’re welcome.” Then he lets her go before he does something stupid. His voice has gone a little husky, though, and he has to clear his throat before he adds, “But you can carry your own bag.”

She grins and slings it over her shoulder again. “So,” she says as they head toward the parking lot. “Anything happened I should know about?”

“No news,” he says. “I’d have let you know if there was.”

“Teal’c still off—?” She catches herself just in time and grimaces. “Off...doing his thing with his friends?”

Jack smiles. “Yup, but no progress. He was sorry, by the way, to miss Jacob’s memorial.”

“I feel bad we couldn’t wait a little longer.”

“Yeah, well, you know what those Tok’ra are like...” He glances at her sideways as he pushes open the door and holds it for her. She gives his unaccustomed gallantry an arch look but he just shrugs it off and says, “So, how’d it go?”

“Surprisingly okay,” she says with a thoughtful nod. “Pete and Mark are close, which helped.”

“I’m glad.” He puts sunglasses on, partly against the glare but mostly to hide the sharp jab of envy. “We’re way over there,” he says and waves to the far side of the parking lot. “Think you’re up to the hike, Colonel?”

Dismissing the comment with a shake of her head, she takes a deep breath. “It’s so hot in San Diego this time of year,” she says. “It’s nice to be back.”

“It’s nice to have you back.” 

She smiles, slipping her own sunglasses over her eyes. “Thanks, sir.”

Sir. He never thought he’d hate that damn word so much.

***

The general drops her outside her house, but doesn’t come in. “I need to get back,” he explains, looking awkward and uneasy with his hands jammed into his pockets. “Teal’c could be back any time and… Well, you know. Anything could happen.”

“I’ll come with you,” she offers. “I’ve got a tonne of work to catch up on.”

But he gives her that look – the stern CO look. “Monday, Carter. You’re on leave until Monday and you know how I feel about people on leave actually leaving.”

“Yes, but—”

“Don’t you have flowers to choose or something?”

She grimaces. “Seating plan.” 

“Right,” he says in that careful, guarded voice she knows so well. “There you go.”

“If anything happens—”

“I’ll call you in,” he promises. “Believe me, Carter, you’re the first person I’ll call.”

And again they’re drifting in that ambiguous space between them – a place inhabited by Pete and the regulations, and now by Kerry Johnson. And she wants to say something, to change something, but she doesn't know how; every avenue is blocked. A knot tightens in her throat, hardening in her chest. 

_You can still have everything you want._

__But it’s never been that easy and that’s always been the problem.

***

Later that night, tears come. Unexpected, they creep up on her as daylight fades into evening and she finds herself sobbing in the gloom and thinking about how her Dad had been so wrong and how he’d been so, so right. 

And how she misses him so much she can hardly breathe past it.

She cries when she thinks of Pete, at home waiting for her to call. She cries when she thinks of the flowers and the the house with the yellow kitchen and the life she’s tried on for size – and how it doesn’t fit, doesn’t suit her. How she doesn’t suit it.

And she cries when she thinks of Jack O'Neill, and what had once been, and almost been, and now might never be. How she’s pushed him away and moved on; how he’s shut down, pulled back, watched without comment or rancour or _anything_ as she played out her romance with Pete. And how now he's with someone else. She thinks, if he’d said something, given any indication that it wasn't okay, that he wasn't happy, that maybe she’d have stopped. She knows why he didn’t – but she also knows that, really, he did; hasn't she known all along what his unreadable eyes and inscrutable expression were hiding?

But it didn’t stop her; she thought she was doing what was right, freeing them both from a hopeless situation. But now she sees she was just lying.

_You can still have everything you want._

__The thought fills her as she drifts from tears into deep, dreamless sleep.

***

She wakes early the next morning to a bright sky and clear thoughts. Scoured clean by the emotional storm, Sam sees the world through unclouded eyes for the first time in forever. And with clarity comes purpose and the acceptance of what she’s known, deep down, all along; she can’t marry Pete. 

She can’t inhabit his world, she can’t pretend to care about seating plans or the colour of her kitchen. For a while she bought into the fantasy of ‘normal’, afraid that she was denying herself something fundamental by holding out for the exceptional. But now she knows she was wrong. 

Normal isn’t for Sam Carter. She’s destined for another life. Not a better one, but a bigger one. Probably a shorter one, but so be it. It’s the life she wants, the life she’s been born to live. And she loves it.

Showering and dressing quickly, she eats breakfast and calls Pete as soon as she thinks he’ll be awake. Perhaps he catches something in the tone of her voice because he sounds tense when she asks to meet. “At the house?” he asks doubtfully. “We can talk about furniture, maybe?”

“The house is fine,” she says. The venue doesn’t matter; she’ll go wherever makes it easier.

On the drive over she imagines how he’ll react. Obviously he’ll be hurt, but he loves her and she knows he’ll want her to be happy. She hopes they can still be friends, eventually, still see each other. There’s no need for it to get nasty.

With a slightly guilty feeling she remembers her flash of jealous disbelief when Kerry Johnson stepped out of the general’s house, salad bowl in hand. But that was only a momentary emotion. She’s happy for him really, isn’t she? That’s what grown-ups do for the people they care about. They’re happy for them, and there for them. Always.

Pete’s already sitting on the little bench out front when she pulls up at the house. She notices how his fingers clench nervously and feels her stomach lurch, dreading the conversation but not facing it with any doubts. She knows what has to be done and she’s soldier enough to see it through. 

Oddly, she feels less nervous about this than she did sitting in her car outside O’Neill’s house, contemplating a very different conversation. But she’s always happier when she’s in control of a situation. That’s just good tactics.

The dewy grass soaks her shoes as she walks across the lawn and sits down next to him on the bench. He doesn’t try to kiss her and she sits as far away from him as possible. It doesn’t seem fair to do anything else.

“Hey,” he says, definitely uncomfortable. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He gives her a hopeful smile. “Want to take another look at the house? I’ve got a key.”

“No. It’s— Pete, that’s not why I called.”

“No,” he says nodding and staring down at his shoes. They were wet too. “I didn’t think it was.”

She blows out a long breath. “This, all of this, it’s—” She stops, collects herself; it’s kinder to just be direct. “I’m sorry, Pete, but I can’t marry you.”

Another nod, a silence, and then, “I knew from the beginning. Guess I just thought when you said yes that…” He looks at her with more self-pity than she expected. “You were worth the risk. Don’t say I deserve better. Can’t get much better than you.”

“That’s not true.” 

“I wish I could believe this had something to do with your father - you needed some time to just work things out.” There’s an edge to his voice now, resentment clipping his words. “I guess all I can say is: I hope you get what you want.”

Or who, is the heavy implication. Irritated, she says, “That’s it?” 

“What do you want?” he snaps. “You want me to get down on my knees and beg?”

“God, no. Of course not. I just—” 

A memory strikes her: O’Neill, tense but trying to be kind, trying to do the right thing when she shows him the ring. Whatever he’d felt, he’d held his ground and he’d still been there for her. Every time. “I thought you’d react differently,” is all she says. But perhaps that isn’t fair: he isn’t Jack O’Neill. And that’s the crux of the problem. 

Pete blinks back tears and in a stiff voice says, “Goodbye Sam.” And that’s it; he’s on his feet and walking away.

“Pete!” But he doesn’t stop. He just pulls the Sold sign down – a petty gesture – and walks away. Just like that, it’s over. 

She doesn’t move, taking a moment to let reality sink in and to work out how she feels about her shifting future. 

_I’m not marrying Pete._

She feels… Relief. Yes, that’s it. She feels a weight lifting from her shoulders, she feels like she can breathe again – and she wonders when she started suffocating. Closing her eyes against the swell of emotion, she tilts her face up to the sky and whispers, “Thank you, Dad.”

After a while she blinks. It’s strange, it feels like a new world but the old one is still all around her. There’s the house and her car, the same but different. Brighter, more hopeful. Briefly she wonders what she should do about the house. Call the Realtor? But then she figures that was Pete’s—

Her cell buzzes in her pocket. Half afraid it might be Pete, and that he might actually beg, she’s almost relieved when she sees the SGC’s caller ID. Although she doubts it’s good news. She presses the phone to her ear. “Carter.”

“Carter, I hate to do this to you.” O’Neill’s taut voice crackles down the line, her lousy reception doing nothing to hide his anxiety. “But I need you on base. Now.”

“Yes sir, I’m on my way. What’s—?”

“Bad news, from our friends,” is all he’ll say; it’s her private cell and unsecure. But she gets the message.

Glancing at her watch, she says, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I’m already on the right side of town.”

“Don’t stop for red lights, Carter.”

She starts running. “Understood, sir.”

***

So.

Another day, another disaster averted. Another naked, unascended Daniel back where he belongs.

“You know this is getting old,” Jack tells him, staring at Daniel over their table in the commissary. “You just can’t keep dying and coming back again. It’s gotta stop.”

Daniel shrugs. “Third time lucky?”

“Ah!” Jack interrupts, hand lifted. “Don’t. Just don’t. No tempting fate.”

With a smile, Daniel sips his coffee and then grimaces. “You know, the coffee was much better.” He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “Up there.”

“The infirmary?”

“Oma Desala’s Restaurant at the End of the Universe.”

“Sounds funky.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” He takes another sip, yawns, and says, “So what did I miss?”

Jack thinks about it, but really only one thing comes to mind. “We lost Jacob.”

“No.” Eyes wide. “Oh my God, what happened?”

“Selmak died…of old age, apparently.”

“Old age?” Daniel is as disbelieving as Jack had been. “They couldn’t find a new symbiote?”

“Got me. Something to do with—” He gives up. “I don’t know; it’s a Tok’ra thing.”

Pulling off his glasses, Daniel presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes. “Poor Sam, how’s she holding up?”

“You know, Carter. She says she’s fine.”

Daniel fixes him with a look. “And is she?”

“You saw her… I don’t know. She seems okay. If it hadn’t been for Selmak, she’d have lost Jacob four years ago. And they’ve been close, these last few years. She says she sees it as a bonus.”

“Still.”

“Yeah.”

“I should— Where is she?”

“I sent her home. She only came in because of the whole end-of-the-world thing.”

Daniel nods, rubbing at his eyes again before slipping his glasses back on. “I’ll miss Jacob. I wish I’d had time to say goodbye.” He pauses, drifting in thought. “But at least Sam’s got Pete.” He casts Jack a wary look that that hovers somewhere between guilt and challenge. “I mean, at least she’s not alone. You know?”

He feels his lips press into a thin line of denial. “Yeah...”

“'Yeah'?” Daniel’s perceptive gaze narrows. “What does that mean?”

“It’s an abbreviation of ‘yes’.”

“No.” Daniel shakes his head. “No, that’s not what you meant.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You tell me.”

“Daniel—” But that look isn’t abating and he figures he might as well tell someone. Maybe he wants to. “Okay,” he says, leaning forward across the table and lowering his voice. “Just between you and me, Carter’s having doubts about the wedding.”

“Really? Why?”

He opens his mouth to answer and then closes it with a snap. “I… Not entirely sure.” Liar.

Daniel doesn’t look like he buys it either, but all he says is, “Did she tell you that, about having doubts?”

“Yeah, she came over the other day but we got, uh, interrupted.”

“She went to your house?”

“Yeah. But then Jacob got sick and…” He sighs because it’s so damn complicated. “I thought I’d just wait and see how things shake out. I don’t want to…confuse things.”

“Confuse things?”

He doesn’t answer; he knows Daniel understands the tangled nature of his relationship with Carter but it isn’t something he plans to discuss. 

Daniel’s eyes widen in understanding a moment before his face folds into his customary, thoughtful frown. “Have you considered,” he says, picking up his coffee and taking another reluctant sip, “that the reason she told you about her doubts was because she’s already confused and she was looking for…clarity?”

“Clarity.”

Daniel blows on his coffee, peering over the top of his glasses. “Maybe she wants to know how you feel.”

“Daniel—”

“Just talk to her, Jack,” he says. “Just go to her house and tell her how you feel about her. It’s really not difficult.”

“Yes it is. You know it’s against the—”

“Fine.” Irritated, Daniel stands up and pushes his chair back with a screech that echoes around the commissary. “Then don’t. I’m sure it’ll be a lovely wedding; I’ll buy you some confetti to throw.” 

A number of curious glances drift in their direction and Jack glares until they turn away – his prerogative as base commander.

But Daniel doesn’t move he just stands there with his eyes squeezed shut; Jack can already see his temper ebbing. “I’m sorry,” Daniel says after a moment. “I’m tired.”

“Coming back from the dead’s a bitch like that.”

Daniel gives a faint smile and opens his eyes, as incisive and honest as always. In a low voice he says, “I’m sick of seeing you both miserable, Jack. Really sick of it. And I don’t get it. I don’t get why you’ve let these stupid rules keep you apart for so long.” 

“They’re not stupid—”

“If it was me,” Daniel says, talking right over him. “I’d have broken them years ago. I’d have broken the laws of physics if it meant I could be with Sha’re. I still would.”

There isn’t an answer he can give to that, so he doesn’t try. Instead he gestures for Daniel to sit down again, which he does, although he only perches on the edge of his chair. He really does look washed out. “You know,” Jack says, feeling confessional, “you’re not the first person to make that point to me.”

“Oh?” Daniel’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “I’m not?”

“Look, I know how it looks from the outside, but I’m just trying to do the right thing here – as her CO and her friend.” He runs a hand through his hair. This whole thing is getting ridiculous; he’s let it get way out of hand. “I don’t want to get in her way. I don’t want to be that guy. I just want her to be happy.”

“And you think Pete makes her happy?” Daniel sounds dubious.

But Jack just shrugs. “Maybe. That’s not something I can be objective about.”

Daniel shakes his head like he doesn’t believe him and pushes his coffee to one side. “Fine,” he says. “It’s Sam’s choice. But you have to be honest with her, Jack. Whatever happens, she deserves to know the truth.”

“The _truth_ is that we can’t— It’s still against regulations.”

Daniel spreads his hands on the table; Jack can see he’s trying to control his frustration. “All the information, then,” he says. “Jack, this decision will affect the rest of Sam’s life. Doesn’t she deserve to have all the facts before she makes it?” He lowers his voice and adds, “Don’t you think that’s exactly what she was looking for when she came to your house?” 

Put like that, it actually sounds reasonable; good decisions are always based on sound intel. He can’t deny her that, can he? 

He taps his fingers on the table, thinking. This isn’t something he’s going to jump in to; he has to consider the options, the repercussions, the consequences. He needs, he decides, to speak to George Hammond.

“I’m going to Washington,” he announces.

Daniel blinks. “Right now?”

“I’ll only be gone a couple of days. Try not to die before I get back.”

Daniel doesn’t comment on that, but he does look at him over the rim of his glasses. “And then you’ll talk to Sam?”

He answers obliquely. “If I do, any idea what I should say?”

Daniel smiles, leaning back in his chair. “You could start with ‘Don’t marry Pete’.”

***

A week after Sam cancels the wedding she still hasn’t told anyone. Well, she’s told Mark so that Pete couldn’t get there first. And the venue, and the caterers and the florist. None of them are particularly sympathetic – she has to pay for everything in full, but she expects that. Pete offers to go 50/50 but she wants to pick up the full cost herself; it’s her mistake, after all. She should never have said yes.

But of everyone she’s called, Mark is the least sympathetic.

“But why?” he asks, at least a dozen times.

“Because it would have been a mistake.”

“But why?”

“Because I don’t love him, Mark. At least, not enough. Not the right way.”

“What does that even mean?”

She can’t explain, so doesn’t try. “I’m sorry,” she says, weary of talking about it. “I know you guys are close.”

After a silence he says, “It’s not about me, Sam. It’s about you. There’s more to life than your career, you know.”

“Believe me,” she says, reigning in a dry laugh. “I know that better than anyone.”

So, she hasn’t told anyone that the wedding is off. And by anyone she means anyone at work. And by _that_ she means Jack O’Neill. It isn’t that she’s avoiding the conversation, it’s just that she hasn’t had the opportunity and she certainly isn’t going to risk driving over to his house again. Hell will freeze over before that happens. 

But he’s hard to pin down. First he disappears to Washington for a few days, and she only knows because Daniel mentions it with a strange, conspiratorial look in his eye. And after he gets back he’s busy catching up. She passes his office a couple of times, but he’s always in meetings – once with Kerry Johnson, who glances up as she passes by with a flat, ambivalent expression. The general doesn’t look in her direction at all. 

And, when it comes right down to it, there’s no real reason to tell him personally, is there? And the longer she goes not telling him, the harder it becomes to broach the subject. 

_By_ _the way, did I mention I broke up with Pete and cancelled the wedding?_

Awkward.

She considers telling Daniel instead, and letting him spread the news. He seems interested; he keeps asking her about the wedding. But deep down she knows that’s a stupid, cowardly idea. She’s never hidden her relationship with Pete from Jack, why should she hide their break-up?

She doesn’t really have an answer to that, beyond the fact that he’s seeing Kerry Johnson. And he didn’t tell her about that, did he? He let her discover it all on her own.

But she doesn’t have that luxury because, if she doesn’t tell him then she can’t tell everyone else and soon they’ll be turning up to an empty church. She’s glad she stipulated no gifts, despite Pete’s objections. Looking back, maybe she’d always known this would happen. Maybe he had, too.

“I’ve sent out cards,” Pete says that evening as he stands in her kitchen, clutching the last box of his stuff: DVDs, a pair of sneakers, two sweaters and half a jar of artificial creamer. “For my side.”

“Cards?”

“Letting them know it’s cancelled.” Holding the box one-handed he tugs something from his jacket pocket and lays it on the counter. “I had some left over, if you want them.”

She glances down at the cream and gold envelopes, matching the invitations. “Do they make cards for this?”

He gives her a blank look. “I had them printed.”

She nods. “Right. It’s a good idea, I should do that.”

“I’d have thought you couldn’t wait,” he says.

“Pete...”

He closes his eyes, frowns. “Sorry.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry. This sucks.”

“Yeah.” He shifts the box in his arms. “Well, I guess this is it then.”

Sam sighs; he looks sad and hurt and resentful. “Look, I know you don’t want to keep in touch, Pete, but—”

“I don’t,” he says. “I’m sorry; I just don’t see the point.”

She thinks of Jack and wonders whether she’ll keep in touch with him if he marries Kerry Johnson. It’s an easy question to answer: yes. Of course she will. It would be easier to cut out her own heart than to cut him out of her life, no matter how hard it is to see him with someone else. 

“Okay then,” she says, feeling vindicated. “I guess this _is_ it.”

Pete doesn’t say goodbye, he just nods and walks away. A moment later she hears her door close behind him — and on that chapter of her life.

Ignoring the blank cards Pete left on the counter - however she tells people, it won't be like that - she flicks on the lights against the darkening evening and starts to fix herself dinner. She’s done a lot of cooking over the past year with Pete and actually finds she quite enjoys it. But it’s odd, cooking for one, and she remembers why she’d so often fallen back on the cafeteria or take-out. 

This time she puts half the tomato and tuna sauce into the freezer for another time and settles down with her pasta, a glass of wine, and a couple of reports she’s been meaning to catch up on for weeks.

She’s just finished eating and is enjoying the last of the wine, curled up and comfy in the corner of the sofa, when someone knocks on her door. Three sharp raps, not exactly impatient but certainly assured. Not Pete; he always rings the doorbell. 

Uncurling her legs, she sets down the report and her glass and pads into the hall. She catches a glimpse of uniform through the glass in her door and feels a sudden flash of panic. Has someone come to break bad news? She pulls open the door and—

“Carter.” It’s General O’Neill; he looks wary, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting trouble. “Hi.”

“Sir?” Instinctively she follows his line of sight, down the street outside her house. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he says and rakes a hand through his short hair. He looks tired and rumpled, still in his BDUs. He’s obviously come straight from the base. “I just stopped by to...” He runs out of steam, then looks at her and says, “Can I come in?”

She shakes off her surprise and remembers her manners, holding open the door wide. “Sorry sir, I’m just surprised to see you here.”

“Not as surprised as me.” He hesitates on the threshold, peering past her into the house. “I’m not interrupting?”

“No, come in.”

“Because I can come back if you’re busy...”

“I’m not busy,” she assures him, stepping back. “I was just catching up on some reading.”

“Ah...” He follows her inside and she closes the door behind him. He’s rarely been inside her house and not once in the past year. It’s strange seeing him standing there; he seems taller in her narrow hallway, his presence dominating the cramped space. It’s getting dark and she has to reach past him to switch on the hall light; it’s closer than they’ve been in a while and she can feel her body react to him, a charge buzzing across her skin like the static kick of an open wormhole.

She glances up, catches his eye and for once he doesn’t look away. Something tingles along the length of her spine, something she hasn’t let herself feel in a long time. She swallows, turns away and heads into the kitchen. _Kerry Johnson_ , she reminds herself and, over her shoulder, she says, “What can I do for you, sir?”

He doesn’t follow right away, hesitating again before stepping carefully into the kitchen. She has the distinct impression that he’s entering enemy territory and resisting the urge to turn a slow three-sixty and order her to cover his six. It’s strange.

“So...” he says eventually, apparently satisfied that there are no dangers lurking in her house. But he doesn’t say anything more and they laps into silence.

“Um,” she says when it begins to feel awkward, “do you want a coffee, or something, sir?” 

“Maybe a whiskey,” he says with a flicker of a smile.

She lifts her eyebrows. “You’re in uniform, sir.”

Glancing down, he looks faintly surprised. “Oh. Yeah, I came straight from the base. Daniel was—” He makes a face, somewhere between a grimace and a smile, and says, “Look, this won’t take long. There’s just something I need to tell you.”

The anxiety in his voice triggers a low pulse of dread in the pit of her stomach. Is he leaving Stargate Command? Oh God, is he marrying Kerry Johnson—? She clears her throat, arms folding defensively across her body, bracing for impact. “Oh?” she says. It’s about all she can manage.

He frowns at the counter, his fingers tapping against its surface. “The thing is, Carter,” he says, “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

Mouth dry, she tries to swallow but can’t and her voice sounds hoarse when she says, “About what?”

He glances up, watching her with that guarded look she’s grown to hate over the last few months. After a hesitation he says, “About Pete.”

“Pete?” He never talks about Pete. “What do you mean?” 

His frown carves a straight line between his eyebrows as he returns his attention to his fingers, still drumming on the counter. “There’ve been a couple of times,” he says, “when you’ve tried to talk to me...”

Heat creeps into her cheeks and she finds herself studying the floor tiles; they could do with a clean. “Sir, I—”

“Carter, just let me say this.” His voice is tight, constrained; it’s almost, but not quite, an order. He pauses, collecting himself, but his fingers don’t stop moving. “I knew what you were trying to talk about, but—”

“Sir, please.” She can’t let him carry on; it’s mortifying. “If I’d known you were involved with someone I’d have never come to your—”

“It’s not that,” he says, cutting her off again. “Look, I don’t know whether you should marry Pete; I don’t know how you feel about him. But I know what I—” He stops, blows out a nervous breath as he looks at her again. “What I’m trying to say here is...” 

He grimaces in frustration and then he goes still, the way he does when he’s made a tactical decision and is about to engage the enemy. He looks at her, his darkly guarded eyes intent and focused. There’s a moment of breathless calm when neither of them move and then in two steps he’s in front of her, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her. 

It’s tender and eloquent and sends her freefalling. 

All she can think is _yes, yes, yes..._

But then it’s over and he’s pulling back, just far enough to look at her, his hands still cupping her face. “Don’t,” he says, as heartfelt as she’s ever seen him. “Don’t marry Pete.”

It hits her like a brick, this game they’ve been playing, this futile resistance to the inevitable. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d only been hurting themselves, but now there’s Pete and maybe Kerry too. She feels tears, grief and anger at the whole senseless mess. “Oh God, we’ve been so stupid.” 

“No,” he objects, looking concerned and like he doesn’t know what to say. “Carter…” And then he does what he always does when he’s lost for words and pulls her into his arms. 

She holds on tight, presses her face against his shoulder. “I’m not,” she says in a shaky voice, her lips brushing the collar of his shirt. “I’m not marrying Pete.”

He makes a gruff noise in the back of his throat and his whole body sags, his relief so powerful it’s physical. And that just makes it worse. She holds on to him tighter. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and she means for everything – for all the years of hopeless repressing, ignoring, and denying. For lying to Pete, for lying to him. For lying to herself.

“Not your fault,” he says, stroking her back. “Just a screwed up situation.”

She nods against his shoulder, not ready to let go. “But now what?” she says, because nothing’s changed. He’s still her CO; _this_ is still against the rules.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says and he’s not letting go either. “But something’s gotta give.”

Sniffing, she tries to pull herself together and she lets him go enough that she can swipe her hands over her face to dry it. They’re still close though, almost touching. She takes a breath. “I guess,” she says, “it’s pretty obvious that this is never going away.”

“It’s not like we didn’t try,” he says, with half a smile. 

But she can’t smile, she feels like she’s being torn apart – desire and duty about to rip her in two. “So what do we do?” she says. “What do we _do_?”

He looks at her, like he’s testing her mettle, and then he makes a decision. She can see it in his eyes. “We just stop fighting.”

It takes her breath away, his certainty – like he’s giving an order, giving permission. Her heartbeat kicks up a notch. “You mean we just…stop?” 

“You said it, Carter: this is never going away. We can’t fight it.”

“But the regul—”

He stops her words with his fingers on her lips. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, brooking no argument. 

Her mouth is dry, she licks her lips and her tongue touches his fingertips. Heat like she’s never seen before flares in his eyes; for the first time since she’s known him, his guard is down. His gaze dips to her mouth and stays there as his fingers trace a path from her lips across her jaw and into her hair. Her heart’s racing; this feels so tantalizing, so forbidden. She’s tingling all over and she thinks she’ll die if he doesn’t kiss her again.

Fingers thread through her hair, pulling her closer. When he talks she can feel his words like a breath across her lips. “Tell me to go,” he says, giving her the final decision. “Tell me to go and I will.”

Lightly, she touches his face, the light stubble of his jaw. “Don’t go.”

“Sure?”

She says nothing, just leans into him and presses her lips against his. And this time there’s no hesitation, no pulling back, and suddenly everything is hands and mouths and need and want and _now_. Right now. 

She feels the hard edge of the counter behind her, his hand under the hem of her shirt, palm flat against her skin, the chain of his dog tags tangling in her fingers as she tugs his shirt open. 

And then he’s pulling back, breathless, and searching her face with dusky eyes. “Are we really doing this?” he rasps. “Are we doing this, _here_?”

“Yes.” Fire, she’s on fire. She’s never felt desire like this. Never. If they stop now she thinks she might die. She grabs a handful of his shirt and pulls him back to her, kissing him, pressing herself against him from top to toe. Every inch in contact. But it’s still not enough.

“No.” He pulls back again and for a moment she wants to scream, but then he grabs her hand and growls. “Bedroom.” 

It’s a frenzy of clothes, buttons, belts. Damn it, combat boots! He laughs, fumbles with the laces. “Didn’t think this through…”

And then it’s skin and heat and no more talking. Just feeling, flying, so intense and wanton she hardly knows herself. And there’s him – tender and urgent, demanding, devoted. Hers. Oh _God_ , he’s hers.

Then a moment of mind-blanking white heat before she’s falling, falling, swept away by a vast tide of emotion. She sobs as a wave of everything she’s locked down, pushed back, and denied crashes down on her - it’s entirely overwhelming. She can only cling to him until it passes, listening to the slowing of his racing heartbeat and the way he murmurs her name like a promise.

When she surfaces she’s wrapped safe in his arms. Its dark outside and they didn’t close the drapes so the streetlight filters into the room and casts stark shadows over the floor. 

She thinks she slept for a while, somehow both emotionally exhausted and unspeakably blissed out. It’s a potent combination. She’s boneless and ecstatic.

His fingers move on her arm, a gentle drift up and down. He’s lying on his back, gazing up at the ceiling, one arm keeping her close and the other curled behind his head. When she stirs, he looks at her and smiles. “Hey.” She’s never seen that smile before, not once. It’s warm and intimate and adoring. 

She touches his face with one finger, tracing his jawline. “Hey.” It still feels illicit to touch him like this, as if it’s wrong. 

He shifts enough that he can look her in the eye. “So...that was intense.”

“Yeah... But good.” 

He looks like he’s trying to articulate something, but in the end he simply kisses her again – a kiss just like his tender smile. He’s always been a man who would rather act than talk. She likes that about him.

“Are you hungry?” she asks after a while. She always gets hungry, after. Sometimes Pete would run out for ice cream, but she doesn’t want Jack gone for so long. She doesn’t want him gone for a moment. “We could order pizza.”

“I could eat pizza,” he says, although he doesn’t move and presses another kiss into her hair, then her forehead, then over her eyes, then her lips, then her throat... “Later,” he decides. “I could eat pizza later.”

She doesn’t argue.

This time it’s slow and languorous, a delicious exploration. The emotional rush is somehow both less and more; less overwhelming, more loving. She cries again as she floats back to earth and he holds her close. “I don’t always do this,” she promises, words muffled by his shoulder. “It’s just… It’s just so…”

“I know,” he says, stroking her back. “For me too.”

It’s midnight by the time they eat pizza, in bed. They’re a little bit dressed and Sam can’t ignore the uniform he’s sort of wearing, the rest cast haphazard about her bedroom. It’s a reminder of something she doesn’t want to remember.

She goes to fetch a couple of beers from the fridge and when she gets back he’s scooping his dog tags off the floor. He looks at them, at her, and drops them onto her nightstand. “Better not lose them,” he says, with a smile that’s sort of ironic.

She sits on the bed in front of him, crossed legged. He’s got his back against the head rest, one leg stretched out and the other bent. He’s resting his arm on his knee, beer dangling from his fingers. “So,” he says, watching her as she sips her beer.

“So,” she agrees. “Now what?”

“Ice cream?”

She smiles, but doesn’t let him get away with it. “We have a briefing in eight hours’ time, _sir_.”

He winces. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t do that.”

“I’ll have to,” she says, softening it with a hand on his leg, just above the knee. “Tomorrow, I’ll have to. It can’t be weird.”

He takes another sip of beer and she can see there’s something he’s not telling her. She narrows her eyes. “What?”

He shakes his head, glances over to the window. The drapes are shut now, there’s nothing to see there. “Two choices, I figure.”

“Okay.”

“First,” he looks back at her. “I retire. For good.”

She knew that would be an option, but isn’t convinced it’s what he wants. He’s still got too much to offer to spend his days idling in his cabin. “What’s the second choice?”

He hesitates, and then says, “There’s talk of a job in DC.”

“Wow.” She’s floored. On the one hand it might solve a lot of problems, on the other…Washington? “What’s the job?”

“It’s not official,” he says, playing it down – he looks a little self-conscious but she can tell that tell he’s pleased. “But, ah, Hammond might be going.”

She stares; she can feel her eyes widen like saucers. “No way.”

“Maybe.” He smiles like he can’t help himself. 

“That’s… That’s some job.”

“Yup.” He’s looking at her seriously now. “But I won’t take it if— You know that this,” he gestures between them with the beer bottle, “this is more important to me.”

Uncurling her legs, she takes his beer from his hand and puts it, and her own, on the nightstand next to his dog tags. Then she climbs into his lap and he holds her there, arms looped loose around her waist. “I’m so proud of you,” she says.

He shakes his head, self-deprecating. “Carter…”

“No, I am,” she says. “I’ve always been proud of you. Proud to serve with you, proud to be in your team.”

He hates this, she knows he does. He shakes his head, looking away. “Come on, stop it.”

“No.” She takes his chin in her hand, making him look at her. “You’re probably the finest man I know, Jack O’Neill. And you deserve this job. More than deserve it - we need you to do it.” She smiles. “Who else would they get?” 

“Duty,” he says, and there’s a weight in his voice. “Maybe I just want this, Sam. Just you and me for a while. Not too much to ask, is it?”

She thinks for a while, leaning into him and resting her head against his shoulder. His hands stroke her back; she can feel the heat of his fingers through her shirt. “You’ve got me,” she says, “you know you’ve always got me. But we can make this work – Washington’s not so far.”

“It’s not here.”

“It’s the same planet, the same continent, even.” 

“Strictly speaking,” he says, “you’d still be under my command.”

“But not my CO.” She shrugs. “Rules can bend, Jack. They need you, and we deserve this.”

“They need you too,” he points out. “And much more than they need me; anyone can push a pencil, but you can blow up stars.”

She laughs, but doesn’t argue the point. The fact is that they’re both pretty indispensable, which means they have a certain degree of leverage – even with the Pentagon. “We deserve this,” she repeats. “Tell them it’s non-negotiable. It’ll tell them the same. If they want us, then we get this.”

He lifts an eyebrow, lips curled in that amused half-smile that means he’s impressed. “I love the way you think, Carter.” And then the smile turns into something serious and her heart skips a few beats as he touches her face, brushing his thumb over her cheek, his breath leaving him in a sigh like surrender. “God, I love you.”

She closes her eyes, just for a moment, because something fierce is welling up. “I love you too,” she says, and he pulls her into his arms and buries his face against her neck. 

“So much,” he whispers. “So, so much.”

Later, curled up beneath the covers and sinking into sleep, she hears him whisper. He’s pressed up behind her, holding her tight against his chest, and when he speaks his breath stirs the hair on the back of her neck. “Carter?” He’s drowsy, drifting off.

“Mmmm?”

“Wanna go fishing?”

She smiles, feels it spread out from her heart until she’s glowing with it. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Pressing a sleepy kiss against her hair, he says, “Is that a yes?”

“You bet.”

He sighs, smiling against her skin. “Been a long five years, Carter...” 

“I know.” She feels a tug of regret for all those lost days, lost years. Lost chances. She rolls over so she can see him; they’re almost nose to nose. “Thanks for waiting.”

His smiling eyes are full of her. “It was worth it.”

And it was, for this moment alone it was all worth it.


End file.
